


Business Hours are Over

by Leafling



Series: Underappreciated fandoms [10]
Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: After a whole year, Betaed, Bratty Holland, Chair Sex, Desk Sex, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Movie(s), References to Sadism, Riding, Rough Sex, Sorry Not Sorry, bad business practices, gay detectives, interruptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 00:24:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7459362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leafling/pseuds/Leafling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some clients are more persistent than others. Holland does not appreciate that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Business Hours are Over

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what inspired me to do this, but... I did it. I need to slow down with writing these fics, I know, but I'm surprisingly inspired. (๑•́ ω •̀๑)

_**Rrrrrrring!**_  
  
After several minutes of ignoring that ear-piercing trilling, Holland finally (and very,  _very_ reluctantly) relinquishes Jackson's mouth, groaning in a mixture of pleasure and **frustration** as he leans back and gropes behind himself for the phone. _Absolutely_ _unwilling_ to stop bouncing in the Jackson’s lap, even though doing so makes it hard to find the landline and virtually impossible to stay on-task when each thrust makes stars appear behind his eyes.   
  
" _Holland, slowdown_ ," Jackson chokes, sweaty hands clenching around the blond's sharp hipbones to try and bring his frenzied riding to a stop. “I’m not going anywhere,” he assures gruffly.  
  
“Shut up, will ya’?” Holland spits, enraptured, gripping the desk behind him and bringing himself down harder on Jackson’s cock. Wriggling and writhing in Jackson’s lap as he is, the older man can’t say he doesn’t  ** _really_** ** _, really_** appreciate the _spec-fucking-tacular_ view Holland presents, especially since the blond’s so  _into it._ The way he throws his head back and bears his neck; the dark look in his eyes and the way his shiny, red mouth can’t seem to stay closed; the flex of his muscles—it is almost enough to distract Jackson from the fact that the phone is still _very much_ _ringing_. 

“Answer the damn phone, you asshole,” Jackson bites out, stilling Holland in his lap **at last**. 

The blond makes a wounded sound in the back of his throat; eerily, it reminds Jackson of when he’d broken Holland’s arm.  _And now_ that _memory has been tainted forever._ “ _Y…you’re_ the asshole,” Holland hiccups, finally glancing over his shoulder and finding the phone. 

Snatching it off the hook, he spits: “what the fuck do you  _want_?” his voice wavers with equal parts strain, exasperation, and petulance. There’s a brief thought that he might be yelling at Holly, but it’s dismissed by the fact that this is the  _business line_  and she was given strict instruction  **not**  to call this number. He plows ahead without a second thought: “You’ve been ringing for the last  _ **ten**_   _fucking minutes_ , like, _Jesus_ , man! Don’t you have somewhere to be—something more constructive to do than— **ow, _shit_**!”  

Jackson interrupts him with a hard smack on the ass, sending him a dirty look before mouthing,  _“what the fuck are you doing?”_

Holland presses the receiver to his sweaty chest, “what, you wan’a turn?” 

“ **No,** ” Jackson says firmly, thinking that would be signal enough to stop Holland’s tirade. _It doesn’t._  

Sniffing agitatedly, the blond zeroes back in on the caller, “ **like I was saying**.  _What the fuck man_? What could be  _so fucking important_ that you refused to take the hint that  _maybe_ we don’t want to chat?” 

Jackson pinches the bridge of his nose, sincerely regretting ever partnering up with Holland. Whatever the poor fucker on the other line says only makes Holland explode with anger and Jackson intervenes right before the blond can threaten _bodily harm_. Wrestling the phone out of the blond’s fist, Jackson levels him with another glare. “Sorry about that. You called at a bad time,” he apologizes, pushing Holland’s claws away when the blond tries to take the phone back and continue verbally assaulting the person on the other line. “Call us back in ten, yeah?” 

After that, Jackson tosses the phone back onto the desk, completely missing the base in his hurry. Grabbing Holland’s hips once again, he hefts him onto the desk next and pushes him down onto his back, hands squeezing freckled shoulders and feeling them warm instantly as Holland flushes. “You trying to put us out of business?” Jackson scolds, “You’ve still got that house to build—not to mention you’ve got a fucking _kid_ to feed.” 

Holland looks as though he’s preparing to defend himself, mouth going tight like he’s cooking up a real stinger of a comeback, Jackson interrupts him with hard, punishing thrusts. The blond’s eyes go wide and so does his mouth, lips parting around a guttural shout that is _beyond_ pornographic. 

Jackson moans in response, fingers digging into Holland’s skin hard enough that he’s sure the blond’s going to be sporting ten little bruises tomorrow. “This what you want, huh?” Jackson asks darkly, never taking his eyes off of Holland’s face contorting in pained-pleasure, “why you’re bitching at clients and shit.”  

There’s a moment where he thinks the blond might correct him, but Holland  _ **can’t**_ **_speak_** anymore, the only sounds he can manage are shuddering gasps and moans that tumble, wet and gracelessly, from his lips. Jackson is _absolutely_ turned on now, counting his lucky stars that he’s able to render Holland speechless for once—and knows he can’t last like this. 

Letting go of Holland’s shoulders, he reaches between them to make a tight fist around the blond’s dick with one hand and brace himself against the desk with the other. Holland jerks hard at the contact, like Dr. Frankenstein’s just thrown his switch. His arms shoot up and wrap tight around Jackson’s neck, Holland burying his face in the older man’s neck, not at all caring that they’re both going to have noticeable stubble burn when everything is said and done. 

Neither one of them can catch their breath now, Jackson almost slows down because of it. Before he can, though, Holland comes all over his stomach and Jackson’s fist with another reedy sound, eyes clenched so tight his lids might split. Like a chain reaction, Jackson comes right after, mindful to collapse to the side. 

The phone sounding interrupts any chance of basking in the afterglow. 

“You’re apologizing.”


End file.
